


Possession

by Whiterabbit11



Series: These new times [5]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry Potter, Bottom Draco, But tiny, Draco is so pretty, Harry has a pity party, Harry is a bit confused, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Probably fluff as usual, Top Harry, boys being dumb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-08-25
Packaged: 2018-06-08 19:34:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6870634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whiterabbit11/pseuds/Whiterabbit11
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry asks himself how he ended up like this. Draco prepares to turn a bad situation to his advantage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Knockturn

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't resist revisiting this verse! I'm trying out more chapters on this section, but not sure how many.

Harry stumbled in the dark street, cursing as he stubbed his toe yet again. He was drunk, really disgracefully drunk yet again, and he knew none of his friends would be pleased to get another call to remove him from the seedy pub on Knockturn. Harry looked around blearily while bitter thoughts whirled through his mind. It was all right for them, all cozily coupled up, all warm and happy together in their cozy couple-y homes. Harry was alone and overworked and he'd spend a miserable winter evening as he saw fit, thanks much. ‘Saviour of the wizarding world, my arse,’ thought Harry belligerently as he started to weave his unsteady way towards The Leaky and it's convenient Floo connection. As usual when he got drunk and lonely, his thoughts turned to Ginny and their short, abortive post-war relationship. Her heart hadn't been in it; she was already flying with the Harpies all over Europe, but the truth was his interest had waned just as quickly. Still, it would have been nice to have someone of his own, a real person who wasn't star struck but just wanted what Harry could offer. A stable home, companionship and love and fun, a shared life together. Harry sighed heavily as his maudlin thoughts turned to Grimauld Place, now shabbier and more decrepit than ever. He should have sorted it out by now but it hardly seemed worth it just for himself. He could admit that he had no idea where to start either. Harry drearily plodded on, imagining his cold room and colder bed, and the friendly spiders in the corners. In many ways it was like being back in the cupboard, except Harry had a strange feeling he had somehow put himself there, this time. How had it come to this? 

An odd noise made Harry stop. His Auror senses were well-dulled by alcohol but still tingling, and his magic was swelling in him urgently. The noise came again, a soft whimper quickly smothered. A thump followed, and another whimper. This didn't sound entirely like the usual Knockturn whores who plied their wares in grimy alleys. They all knew Harry well enough now to ignore him anyway. He never cautioned them like a good little Auror should, but he wasn't a customer either. None even caught his eye, although the blonde man of indeterminate age who sometimes ‘hung out’ there claimed Harry Potter looked at his arse. None of the other whores believed him. Potter seemed numb, and was usually so drunk that walking was all the challenge he needed. 

Harry knew the whores felt sorry for him, and that they didn't bother to stifle the sounds of their trade when he was around. This though - oh yes, another soft cry - this was definitely stifled. Harry shook his head as his magic sharply cleared his brain. It had done this before, when danger presented itself. A childhood filled with casual abuse followed by teenage years filled with focused danger had honed Harry's magic to a powerful tool that protected him even when he wasn't particularly fussed. Now it forcibly removed the alcohol from his system, a singularly horrible experience, and Harry clutched the wall for a moment to regain his balance. Then he unsheathed his wand and crept around the corner, keeping to the shadows. Further in the gloom behind another grotty pub were two men. One was bare below the waist, and all Harry could see of him was a pale, heart-shaped bottom and thin hands struggling weakly. The other man was heavy, huge, and attempting to keep the first from covering himself up while undoing his own flies. He seemed to have silenced the pale man with magic and was now resorting to brute force to get the rest of the deed done. Harry sneered in disgust, and shot a stunner at the large man that sent him crashing unconscious onto the rubbish-strewn cobbles. The spell now broken, the pale man made a soft whining noise and collapsed, still struggling ineffectually to cover himself. Harry bent over him, the official, soothing Auror patter coming easily to his lips. The struggles lessened and Harry helped the man to sit up. Even as the mussed, platinum hair came into view, Harry’s words dried up. Draco Malfoy looked as lousy as Harry had ever seen him, which given their history was very lousy indeed. He stank of cheap alcohol and sported a black eye and varying bruises from his struggle. He tried to focus on Harry but failed, his eyes nearly rolling back in his head. ‘Not just booze then,’ thought Harry, and picked up the blonde carefully. Although Draco was still a couple of inches taller, Harry's magic compensated and he carried him easily out of the alleyway, aiming a kick to the groin of his assailant on the way. Harry knew he could find the bastard later. He was keen to get Malfoy cleaned up first. Perhaps some alcohol still remained in his system, because instead of taking the drugged blonde to St Mungo's like the good little Auror he was meant to be, Harry simply closed his eyes, concentrated, and apparated them directly to Grimauld Place.


	2. Enter the dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco is a Slytherin.

Draco woke with a soft start, and lay very, very still. He was instantly on alert with the realisation he was not in his own bed, and instinct born of surviving war-hungry maniacs in his home made him play dead while he gathered information. Memories of the previous night were hazy and deeply unpleasant. Draco broke out in a cold, clammy sweat as he considered that he might have been dragged back to the lair of that horrible peasant who had been harassing him at the bar. If Draco had been less drunk - or more used to being drunk - he would certainly have detected something amiss in his drink. After all, the first step towards gaining a Potions Mastery was learning to be paranoid about anything one drinks. However there was no time for guilt and recriminations now, and Draco bent his thoughts to his current situation.

Having decided that the room was empty except for himself, Draco slitted his eyes open carefully. His surroundings were run down in a plush, ‘faded grandeur’ way. The furniture was dull with neglect but heavy and beautifully made. Not the peasant then. He opened his eyes fully and took stock of himself. He was clean, and there were no signs of the bruises and aches he would have expected after last night's assault. He vaguely remembered a punch to the face before things got really blurred, and he felt his face gingerly. It appeared to be fine. His hair was messy and tangled but fresh, and he was dressed in worn, slouchy muggle trousers of horrid red tartan. They seemed to sit large on him, so he surmised his rescuer had to be broader than himself. Thinking of his rescuer brought more murky memories to the fore. Strong arms lifting him out of the filth of the alley. A gentle, deep voice… Draco stiffened. Bloody Potter. He would recognise that voice and the accompanying scent of him anywhere, in any state of drugged inebriation. They had fought often enough that Draco was intimately aware of his smell and strength, even if they hadn't been that near each other in years now. Draco looked around again. This had to be the house Black had bequeathed to his godson instead of allowing it to pass to Draco’s mother. Judging from the Black crest stamped on the soft furnishings and in the cornices, this room had been untouched since it served the Blacks some two decades earlier. Draco wondered about the state of the rest of the house, until he realised he could just ask.

“Kreacher,” whispered Draco huskily. There was a soft pop and the house elf appeared beside the bed, a huge, watery grin on his face. “Master Draco! Kreacher is so glad to be seeing the young master awake!” Kreacher was also modulating his voice to a whisper, and Draco was glad to see that someone, at least, was upholding standards. He deigned to smile at the ancient elf. “Where am I?” he asked without preamble. “And how long have I been here?” Kreacher confirmed Draco’s suspicions as to location and time, and offered tea. Draco demanded to know where his host was, and whether the rest of the house was in the same state as this room. He mentally thanked the incurious nature of elves as Kreacher faithfully informed him that the house was mostly as the Mistress had left it on her passing, and that Master Harry was taking tea and toast in the kitchen. “Do not tell him that I'm awake yet. In twenty minutes you may bring me a tea tray, Assam, and allow Master Harry to come up also.” “Yes Master Draco! Kreacher has proper tea for Master Draco! Kreacher is doing just as Master Draco says!” And with another pop, Kreacher was gone.

Draco leaned back in the bed and sighed. Right. Potter. Potter had found Draco last night and brought him here, to his own home, instead of to St Mungos as an Auror should do. He had healed Draco’s wounds and spelled him to purge the drugs and alcohol from his system. He had cleaned him and dressed him and tucked him into this ancient but luxurious bed. Then he had left him alone to recuperate. Draco hummed. “What a very interesting evening you had, Golden Boy,” he murmured to himself. “Are you in the habit of picking up unconsidered trifles in Knockturn?” He snorted softly. He couldn't see the Saviour cozying up to streetcorner tarts or adoring fans. Potter didn't need money or magic to make panties drop but from years of ~~stalking~~ observation Draco knew the man was a romantic at heart. He would want the real deal. And after all he had been through, who's to say he didn't deserve it? Draco recalled the underfed, neglected child he had met in Madame Malkins. Despite his shabby appearance the magical power had rolled off Potter’s thin shoulders, and even without knowing who he was, Draco had been desperate to impress him. He had lived all his life surrounded by powerful people and he understood in a very visceral way that this was true power, or would be, with a few more years and many square meals. Draco shivered a little as he considered the man Potter had grown into. He had ~~stalked~~ seen him from time to time, wizarding London being as small as it was, and the Boy Who ~~~~Lived Twice had filled out very nicely indeed. Auror training was notoriously tough, and Potter had a reputation for being even tougher. He had shaken up the moribund department and earned himself many enemies both inside and outside the Ministry. He was strong and broad and ~~hot as hell~~ very capable of taking on all comers with wand or fist, but Draco thought there was still something of the neglected waif of old there too. He looked around the battered room. A little tender loving care could restore this house, and perhaps its owner too. There would be hundreds applying for the job daily; Potter need only snap his fingers. Yet it was Draco he had found in the filth of Knockturn, and Draco he had brought to his home, and Draco who he had failed to provide with a shirt last night.

Very interesting indeed. Draco waved his hand languidly, calling upon the only wordless, wandless magic he could do. A small gilded mirror appeared before him, along with a little silver-backed hairbrush. He didn't want to risk the dusty artifacts on the dressing table across the room, but these were useful enough. Draco set about brushing his long hair out to a glossy, platinum sheen. He checked his complexion for any imperfections and had to admit Potter’s healing magic was top drawer. He then experimented a little with propping up the pillows and moving the sheets higher or lower, and ended up settling them lightly across his bare chest, with his arms on top. Any lower made him appear over-eager; any higher suggested a terrified maiden. He sat up against the pillows so his hair could fall over his shoulder to best advantage. He used his wand, thoughtfully placed at his bedside, to freshen his mouth, scour his skin, and open the curtains. The windows were dingy but allowed a little weak winter sun through to warm up his pale hair and features prettily, once he moved a few inches to the left. He had just vanished the mirror and brush when a soft knock sounded at the door. Draco wondered whether to pitch his voice into ‘recovering victim’ mode or something more polished. “The real deal,” he reminded himself softly. He called “Enter?” only to find his voice actually was quite unsteady, and his heart was jumping nervously. A moment later, Potter’s green eyes and ugly glasses were peering cautiously from the gloom of the corridor through the opening door. Draco turned from the sun and smiled.


	3. Grimmauld

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mother knows best, aka that time Narcissa was probably fed up of all her boys.

Harry sighed softly and watched as his guest daintily sipped tea. Assam, black. Just like Sirius had his. Kreacher had served it in ‘the family china’, a set Harry had never seen before the house elf produced it twenty minutes ago. It had the Black crest interwoven beautifully into a black filigree pattern but it was sturdy, too. Harry surmised that generations of Blacks had drunk Assam from this very set, and felt a familiar pang in his chest. This house was his but it wasn't his home. He didn't belong here. The Weasleys were his family but they weren't his, not really. They worried about him terribly but nothing like the panic and fear on Narcissa Malfoy’s face when he Floo-called her earlier today to inform her of the whereabouts of her son. She had thanked him profusely for saving Draco and explained that Lucius had thrown Draco out after an enormous row. She called it ‘an unfortunate disagreement’ but Harry couldn't imagine Lucius excommunicating his precious son and heir over a minor quibble.

Harry had thought about that, while he ate his toast perched at the kitchen table. Sirius had been removed from the family tree for sympathising with muggles but the Malfoys couldn't afford to care about that now, when they were still on shaky ground with the wizarding community. It had to be something else, and Harry had an inkling what it might be. Draco was still sipping decorously and throwing Harry little smiles and coy looks from under that halo of platinum blonde. There had been hints of Draco's preferences even at school and the vision Harry found when he opened the door just now confirmed it. He knew he had left Draco clean and healed, but the long hair was freshly brushed, the creamy skin displayed tastefully (and Harry had only peeked a very little bit last night, thank you) and the minx had somehow coaxed a little sunlight into the dingy room. Draco looked marvellous like this, and he knew it. Harry found he was charmed by the effort the blonde had taken to greet him, and charmed further by Draco's happy conviction that he was fooling Harry. Not that it hadn't worked of course, Harry realised with a start. He hadn't been able to take his eyes off Draco since entering the room. Harry took a breath and tried to gather his scattered thoughts.

“I spoke to your mum,” he said quietly. Draco had sounded shaky and worn despite his bravado, and Harry had insisted he have a cup of tea before they talked. Now Draco laid down his cup carefully and picked up a toast point. “You told her I'm with you?” asked Draco and relaxed when Harry nodded. Harry's surprise must have shown for Draco elaborated, “So she knows I'm safe.” Harry couldn't help feeling warmth and pride at that declaration, and he watched with unconscious intensity as Draco nibbled his toast. Those thin, sugar pink lips parted around the tiny bite, and a little smear of marmalade remained behind. Harry had always despised marmalade and didn't even know they had any before Kreacher had made up the tray for their guest, but now he found himself almost salivating.

Draco was quiet while he chewed, and watched Harry watching him. There was a prickling feeling that came with being the sole focus of the Chosen One, which was at once familiar to Draco from hundreds of occasions at Hogwarts. He hadn't felt it in years and found he had missed it. After all, being watched over by Harry Potter meant being safe, being looked after, and being privileged above the peasants who had not garnered Harry’s attention. Draco did so enjoy being privileged and looked after. And why shouldn't he, after the rotten time he had had in the war? Greyback sniffing around like an ill-mannered dog. Uncle Bunny and Uncle Dolly with their inappropriate jokes and even more inappropriate touches, as if sharing his mad aunt wasn't enough for them. Urgh. Draco could do with some pampering and he was going to get it. Potter needed some care too, if he was lurking in this grim mausoleum wearing dreadful snitch-print pyjamas all the time. Draco couldn't imagine why no one had taken him in hand and given him the home and family he so obviously craved, although the pyjamas had probably scared off previous suitors. Luckily Malfoys were made of sterner stuff. Draco found the pout came easily to his lips and his voice was quite naturally wobbly when he said, “Then you know I've nowhere to go?” Harry nodded again and seemed to refocus on Draco's eyes with some difficulty. Draco widened them and looked pitiful. “What am I going to do, Harry?”

Harry nearly laughed but managed to transmute it to a kind smile. Draco was a disgraceful actor who wouldn't fool a five year old. It was just as well he was so damn pretty. Harry knew Snape had left his house at Spinners End to his godson, and Draco had likely intended to head there the previous night. Harry could imagine it was a dull, dark place in as much disrepair as Grimmauld Place. Snape hadn't been a cheerful man and the Ministry had discovered the wards on his property were ferocious. No, sending Draco there was unthinkable. Besides, Narcissa had stressed in conversation the fact that Harry had saved Draco again, for the third time. He knew the power of three in magic - had drawn upon its strength with his friends - and he knew what it meant to save a man three times. Draco’s life belonged to him now, and Harry was hard pushed to feel bad about it. This house didn't belong to Harry, not really, and Draco was holding the flatware to prove it. He'd never had a family to call his own. But Draco did belong to Harry now, Harry alone. His father had rescinded all claim on his heir and his mother had been most anxious that Harry realise his position. Perhaps Draco would chafe a little at the new arrangement but there were all those coy looks and … was that a nipple peeking out of the white sheet? It was the most perfect shade of pale pink … Harry mentally shook himself and reminded himself he was dealing with a snake here. He refocused on Draco's wide, guileless eyes and knew he was screwed.


	4. The Burrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Weasleys gain some insight into Harry's relationship with Draco.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, truthfully this isn't adding anything to the story, but I can't seem to leave this verse alone!

“You want me to what?” Draco gaped at the gathered Weasleys before him. They were all dressed in those horrid muggle tops called tees-shirts that made everyone look like a hobo, except these were _matching_ , a tacky shade of red with striped gold trim and, _quelle horreur_ , ‘Weasley’ written in gold on the back. It looked hideous on every single one of them except Harry, who suited red rather well.

“Well, Harry's too fat to play seeker anymore,” began Ron before being punched solidly in the arm by Harry. “It's all muscle!” Harry protested loudly while the others snickered. “We need him as a beater now anyways,” said George in a subdued voice and there was a general shuffling and looking down. “So we need a seeker for the game today. Fleur’s been great, of course,” said Bill, and looked lovingly at his wife who was resting in a kitchen chair with her feet up, all manner of cakes, biscuits and tea settled near her enormous baby bump. She raised a cupcake at him in acknowledgement. “The Irish guys are good and we need a proper seeker, Malfoy,” said Charlie firmly. “You're still trim,” here Charlie ignored Harry's ‘oy’ of protest to continue, ”And no one came closer to beating Harry than you. With Ginny back from the leagues to play chaser again, we can't lose!” There was a rousing chorus of cheers but Draco wrinkled his nose. “Do I have to wear that horrible rag?” “Yes!” The rag in question sailed towards his face. He grabbed it out of the air and glared at Harry, who was grinning happily and roughhousing with his adoptive brothers.

Draco sighed and reached for the buttons on his ivory silk shirt. He would do almost anything to keep Harry looking so content, even parade in public wearing Griffindor colours and his once-enemy’s name on his back. And Merlin knew red did nothing for his colouring. He slipped his shirt off and folded it carefully, before realising silence had fallen. Draco turned to see everyone staring at his torso, which was covered generously in love bites, teeth marks, fingerprints and bruises. Some were fading and others stood fresh and stark against Draco’s milky skin, evidence of his possessive lover’s constant attentions. One spot on his shoulder seemed to be Harry's particular favourite, and Hermione reached towards the livid mark with a scandalised gasp before rounding on her best friend. “Harry!” she scolded and Harry blushed furiously while Charlie scrubbed his hair and Bill and George cackled loudly. Percy was sniggering too, and Molly and Fleur were hiding smiles, although Ron was staring in theatrical horror. “Blimey mate, have you been eating Malfoy? I thought it was just pies!” Harry groaned and buried his head in his hands. “Shut up!” he whined feebly. Ginny meanwhile stepped forward for a better look. “He was never like this with me,” she murmured, so softly that only Hermione and Draco heard her. Her bright eyes were a little wistful. Draco quickly pulled the tees-shirt on and as his head reappeared, put on an evil grin. “You should see my arse,” he told her, loudly enough that her brothers heard. The kitchen exploded with laughter and cat calls, and Harry's blush intensified to match the team shirts. Even Hermione and Molly were laughing openly, while Fleur was loudly mocking Harry along with the others.

“Right, let's get outside and put some cushioning charms on Malfoy’s broom then!” called Bill, herding his boisterous siblings out of the door. Amidst the continuing ribaldry Ginny was laughing again, her momentary sadness relieved in taking the piss out of the Boy Who Lived. Percy fussed around his fiancé Audrey, who had been roped in to be the medic for the game, and Hermione and Fleur levitated drinks and snacks, as well as a large armchair for Fleur. Arthur and little Teddy appeared, slightly sticky, from the direction of the strawberry beds, and joined the party heading to the make-shift Quidditch pitch. Molly looked around her suddenly quiet kitchen and sighed happily.

\-----

Draco woke with a start and a soft groan. He was sleeping on his front, exhausted from a long game of Quidditch and a long session of more intimate exercise once they finally made it home. Harry, it seemed, was very inspired by seeing his Slytherin lover wrapped up in Griffindor colours - _Harry's_ colours - and could barely wait to strip Draco and have his way with him. Draco reached for his wand and blearily aimed a healing charm at his much-abused, much-discussed arse. The Weasleys were a rambunctious bunch with no manners at all, but they were forgiving and kind. Catching the snitch today had helped too, and for Harry's sake he was grateful they had accepted him into the fold. He could certainly bear some teasing for that.

Draco tried to resettle himself, mentally noting he should check the upholstery on the sofa in the family parlour tomorrow. They had barely made it out of the floo before Harry set upon the blonde but, thought Draco with a luxurious stretch, that's what came of having such a possessive lover. Even now Harry had an arm and a leg thrown over Draco’s limbs, as if ensuring he wouldn't sneak off at night. Not that there was any chance of that. Once the initial shock amongst their friends had died down, Draco had worked hard so that people would see how good he could be for Harry. As well as revamping the main living areas of Grimmauld Place, Draco had bought Harry almost an entire new wardrobe, and made sure he ate at least three proper, healthy meals a day. He sent their newly-hired, younger house-elf to Harry's desk with a delicious lunch every day, and again with dinner if he had to work late. Perhaps he indulged Harry a little too much, but one could hardly blame him after all that business with the muggle relatives came up. As always when Draco thought of the infamous cupboard and the tiny, neglected babe kept in it, he was compelled to run a hand over Harry, as if to reassure himself that his lover was whole and well. 

Harry hummed under Draco's gentle handling and turned over, presenting Draco with a fine view of his broad, muscled back. Harry had filled out indeed, prompting the teasing from his Weasleys, but it really was mostly muscle. Aurors trained hard and now Harry was supplementing his training with regular, decent meals. Draco eyed the scratch marks across that dark golden back with smug satisfaction. Harry was even more gorgeous now than he had ever been, and anyone eyeing him off in the change rooms at work would see that he was taken. Draco turned on his side and cuddled right up behind his lover, entwining their legs easily and slipping his arm under Harry's to curve tightly around that strong waist. He buried his face into warm skin, snuffled the scent of Harry and home, and dozed off again.

In his sleep, Harry smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I imagined some super-tacky 'up Griffindor' shirts because my favourite HP fact is that the Weasley kids make a complete Quidditch team. Ron is Keeper, the twins are Beaters, Bill, Charlie and Ginny are Chasers. Percy doesn't play but then Harry comes along to be their Seeker! I can imagine them tormenting every casual team in the country with their over-enthusiasm.


	5. Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That time I tried to write smut and totally failed. This chapter is set slightly before the previous.  
> Warnings for language and general lameness.

“Now,” demanded Draco, glaring up at the other man. It never ceased to amaze Harry how Draco managed to be a spoilt brat even in bed, but here they were. He sighed and folded his arms down to the bed, moving carefully from between the blonde’s legs and bringing himself to Draco's side. Draco fought him a little at first by tightening his thighs, but then got huffy and practically pushed Harry away. He started to turn over and away from his reluctant lover but Harry wouldn't let him go, quickly grabbing any part of the prickly blonde he could and holding him down. With another huff, Draco allowed Harry to snuggle him. “Baby,” murmured Harry placatingly but Draco cut him off at once. “Don't you ‘baby’ me! Why don't you want to? Don't you want me?” Draco made his eyes big and shimmery in that way that Harry knew was wretchedly manipulative, yet fell for every time. Even now he found himself melting, his own eyes trailing over the appealing feast laid out before him. All that pale, pretty skin and soft, platinum hair, displayed for Harry and Harry alone. Therein lay the problem of course.

Following the fortunes of war, Draco had had no decent offers of a lover other than creepy old men who promised him riches in exchange for his favour. During the war itself, Draco had confided, Greyback had been a constant threat, as had Rudolphus and Rabastan Lestrange (or Dolly and Bunny, as they were called in the family), and Narcissa had harboured suspicions of Tom Riddle himself plotting to pluck her son's only remaining innocence. After surviving all that horror, Draco had unsurprisingly arrived in Harry's arms _virgo intacto_ , and it was not a responsibility that Harry took lightly. Following Draco's instalment at Grimmauld Place they had danced around each other for weeks, flirting and fighting in equal measure. Finally Harry had gone to bed one night to find Draco already there, blushing and brave and defiant. He had never left. In the month that followed Draco's bold claim of his place in Harry's bed, they had sucked and licked and writhed their way to mutual satisfaction in every way imaginable except the ‘main event’, but Harry remained cautious. Draco still startled sometimes if Harry made sudden, unanticipated moves. He was occasionally shy and always hesitant to ask for what he wanted, but got pouty and bratty if he didn't get it. Harry himself was no font of knowledge, having only a few rough tumbles with nameless muggles to compare. He had done enough to know penetration did little for him, but experimented gamely anyway, in case it was different with Draco. The blonde took to it with a great deal more enthusiasm, more so once they discovered a book of spells and charms in the Grimmauld Place library that brought all manner of magical help to proceedings. Harry was pretty sure he wouldn't hurt his virginal lover but he was still nervous, and unsure if Draco would even tell him if things weren't going well for him. Now he swept a large, possessive hand across Draco's body, marvelling again at the difference between his own dark, hair-roughened skin and his lover’s milky smoothness.

Draco was attempting to maintain the limpid, silvery gaze that Harry responded to best, but was struggling against his natural grumpiness at being denied a promised treat, and his persistent arousal. When Harry continued to look at him in silent, hesitant adoration, Draco drooped and turned away as much as he could with his handsome lover draped across his body. He knew Harry fancied him; he could barely keep his hands off Draco even in company, and there had been that embarrassing incident when Molly caught them in the pantry at the Burrow and threatened to hit Harry with a broom if he didn't “let that poor boy eat his dinner in peace!” Draco knew too that the healthy eating regime he had concocted for Harry, along with the even healthier servings of orgasms, had improved Draco's own looks tenfold. He was pretty sure he was glowing with health and the sort of well-fucked smugness that evoked jealousy everywhere he went. Sadly however, he was yet to tempt Harry to actually follow through on the fucking. He had tried everything from seduction to manipulation to outright demands, but his gentle-hearted Griffindor was still anxious. Draco felt they had done enough for him to know he was going to enjoy being shagged, even if it hurt a bit at the start, but he wasn't worried. They had become pretty adept at all the spells that eased, stretched and prepared, and Harry wasn't _monstrously_ big. Though Draco knew better than to use that particular argument.

He sighed softly, feeling Harry's erection still hopefully nuzzling his thigh even as its owner continued nipping and kissing his neck and shoulders. Harry was fond of marking Draco's easily-bruised skin and Draco indulged him in this as in all his lover's small wants. Why couldn't he let Draco have this one thing they both wanted? Draco turned to search the green eyes trained upon him, and knew that Harry's hesitation came from love and worry and all kinds of mixed up, muddled up emotions. Suddenly he knew what Harry needed. Just like he had always known how best to get under Harry's skin, he knew how to soothe him too. Draco stoked his slim fingers through rough black curls. “I'll tell you if I need you to slow down or stop,” he assured softly. “I know I don't always, but I promise I will. I'll tell you when it's good, and when it's not. I really want this, Harry.” Draco twined his long leg over Harry’s hip wantonly, trust implicit in every sensual movement, and let his voice go breathy as he _begged_. “Won't you take what's yours, please?” He watched as those famous AK-green eyes almost glazed with greedy pleasure, with the possessive joy of being offered a prize long dreamed of, and knew Harry Potter was finally his.


End file.
